I was only six when James Baldwin died, too young to understand who he was and that we were actually brothers. And then one day I read "Native Son."

Now I get it.

In the dark hours of the night, like an amputee, I look for the missing piece of myself. When I am stuck without my books, the missing piece aches. When I am searching for the missing piece, that's when it's easiest to forget that it's missing.

Baldwin knew this.

He also knew that word limits were not enough to hold down my unlimited imagination.

The words rolled along into paragraphs both forgiving and unforgivable. Underneath them I could see a living and breathing James Baldwin.

Was I safe?

Safe! Safe? Hell, there ain't no safe place for an author. Not in this world. Not here, not anywhere.